Tuesday The 17th
by Loafer
Summary: Little Lassiet one-shot about reflecting upon the past.


**Disclaimer** : I don't claim dis. I don't claim dat. I am tired of writing disclaimers about how Steve Franks owns everything _psych_ -edelic and I don't.  
 **Rating** : T  
 **Summary** : A little Lassiet one-shot about reflections upon the past.

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Tuesday the 17th.

Carlton stood at the window, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. It was momentarily raining outside, big fat drops splashing onto the patio table, which was probably quite surprised at the novelty.

By the time he returned to the window with his steaming mug, the rain was gone and the sun was making its first appearance for the day.

The condo was quiet, and so was he.

It was a time for thinking, just now at dawn, and he thought about the specific circumstances which led him to stand here in this condo.

The condo he'd bought for Marlowe, who'd left him before she even got out of prison.

Marlowe, who was supposed to be his antidote to Juliet.

Juliet, who had once upon a time become his antidote to Victoria.

Victoria…. who brought him back to Tuesday the 17th.

He remembered going to the restaurant, flowers in hand, jewelry safe in its case, certain this was his big break with her. Certain it was time for optimism to pay off, because for Victoria to agree to meet him here—where they'd had their _first_ date—that could only be good, right?

He remembered being prepared to wait as long as it took to see her, imagining her smile—and then when he found her in the bar, realizing only later that the smile she did wear was not only nervous but perhaps a little guilty.

He didn't spot the guilt _then_ (some cop, he thought now). It took him a few hours, after he got home and began ruthlessly replaying the entire evening to figure out where he went wrong (because missteps with women were usually his fault).

It took him even longer to accept that she could have— _should_ have—handled it much differently. Much more kindly. Certainly she could have spared them both the farce of what felt like a date—a beginning—when her sole intent was to end it all forever.

She was right, Carlton admitted, to think he'd have resisted meeting to put the final stab wound to their marriage. But to drag the evening out for hours… that was wrong.

At home later, he tortured himself with wondering if it was because she _did_ have second thoughts once they were seated together talking, that maybe she _was_ considering trying again, and it was only his extravagant gift which stopped her.

He also considered somewhat uncharitably (although not unrealistically) that it would have been more like her to accept the jewelry. Because Victoria did love expensive shiny objects.

It took a therapist to make him understand that Victoria, from the moment she asked for the separation, had never intended it to be temporary. She'd resisted all his attempts to reconcile, she'd resisted his attempts to woo her, she'd consistently rebuffed … _him_.

 _Separation means separate_ , read her testy note with the returned ceramic figurines.

 _Separation_ , the therapist explained, in Victoria's case, meant _I don't want to be with you anymore_.

He didn't like that he'd had the affair with Lucinda. He had needed her, needed to be close to someone again. The SEPARATION had been in effect for well over a year and Lucinda offered a balm he could not resist.

But he didn't like that he'd done it, for what it said about him as a man. He sometimes wondered if Victoria even knew about Lucinda. By the time Spencer exposed them and Lucinda got transferred out, he was knee-deep in the murk of trying to understand his role under Interim Chief Vick, dealing with the sudden explosion of Spencer himself into an otherwise carefully ordered work life, and then here came another young blonde female partner who couldn't make up her mind whether he was God or the Devil while fighting her own battle to be taken seriously despite her looks and youth.

Finding time to confess his indiscretion to the erstwhile wife who didn't want him seemed immaterial during those days, and besides, she'd had at least two boyfriends herself before Tuesday the 17th.

Because for Victoria, "separation" meant _I don't want to be with you anymore but I'd rather string you along and have you pay the bills my father won't write a check for than actually have the personal integrity to end it for good._

He sipped coffee and watched water droplets fall from the edge of the still-wet table, the new sunlight turning them into little diamonds before they disappeared into the patio tiles.

There were a couple of Tuesday-the-17ths every year. Carlton celebrated each one privately with a few minutes just like this, surveying his life and how far he'd come since then.

Victoria could have saved them both so much time and trouble if she'd just been honest with him up front: "I want a _divorce_." Would he have fought it? Yes. He'd have fought it just exactly as hard as he did after the words "I want a separation." He'd have been just as much of a blundering ass about trying to get her to reconcile.

But he wouldn't have believed, as she _led_ him to believe, that there was any actual hope. The fight would have been a lot shorter. He was stubborn, and he hated to fail, but he was neither stupid nor masochistic. He'd rather have made one valiant effort and then put down his sword with dignity than be sideswiped while bearing flowers and jewels and _expectations_.

That's what he could tell himself now, anyway, but even in his most self-recriminatory moments, it still rang true.

And he was better off for the loss. _All_ the losses.

He'd lost Lucinda, who was never really his to begin with, nor meant to be—not that she put up much of a fight about the leaving.

He'd lost Marlowe, whom no reasonable person could say he even knew well enough to commit to, let alone buy a condo for in hopes of some gossamer fairy-tale future.

He'd had the stain of Spencer on his career for years, but even Spencer had his benefits: Carlton didn't take any chances on a case. He conducted himself as professionally as he could (excess weapon discharges notwithstanding) and had a solid work history of service which would far outlast Spencer's capricious ways. He'd learned which battles to fight, and which ground to stand firm on.

With Juliet as his partner, Karen Vick as his extremely capable Chief, and the perspective gained from the passage of time and a host of other lessons learned, he _was_ better off.

He raised the mug to the window in silent salute to Tuesday the 17th, and drank deep.

Footsteps padded down the hall from the bedroom. He didn't turn, but he smiled.

Juliet's arms wound around him from the back. "What are you pondering?" She sounded sleepy.

"The rain," he said.

She peered past him out the window. "What rain?"

"See where the table's wet?"

"Huh. Sure you didn't just water the plants indiscriminately?"

Carlton laughed. "I would never lie to you about rain."

"Fair enough." She moved around so she could rest her head on his chest, and he encircled her warm soft body with his free arm. "Do we _have_ to go to work?"

"Nope."

Juliet gasped in mock horror. "Carlton Jebediah Lassiter!"

"Yeah, I know. I'm getting soft in my old age."

"Not _entirely_ soft," she purred, and just like that he was a bit revved up… again. With her, it was always _again. More_.

"How did you end up here?" he asked, offering her the mug.

"I flew out from Miami in 2006." She drank a little coffee, smiling.

He squeezed her, which made her laugh softly. "How did you end up in my life?"

"Ummm… Chief Vick assigned me to you?"

Carlton kissed her smug face briefly. "And how did you end up in my _personal_ life?"

She took another sip of coffee, still smug. "Perseverance and ingenuity. Yes."

"No." He reclaimed the mug, and Juliet made a moue of protest. "You didn't have the sense to run away."

"Oh… so you got involved with a dum-dum?"

When he didn't answer immediately, pretending to think about it, she jabbed him lightly in the stomach—and then stood on tiptoes to kiss him right after.

"Well, _there_ was a mixed message."

"I only hurt the man I love. Why are you asking about me being in your life? Having second thoughts?"

"Hell to the no. I'm asking because it's Tuesday the 17th."

Juliet's blue-gray eyes were puzzled. "Not ringing a bell."

He cast his memory back to what _she_ was doing then. "I think you were up at Camp Make-Me-Scream-Like-A-Little-Girl with Spencer and Guster."

"Yeah, I remember _that_ ," she said dryly. "But what's significant about the date otherwise?"

"It's the night I signed my divorce papers."

He'd never mentioned it to her, not specifically. It took him a little while to rise up out of the depths of loss (even long-overdue loss), and he'd never had inclination or reason to describe the final encounter. Karen Vick had eyed him compassionately the next day but never asked; he knew she guessed how it went, but wasn't going to do more than pat him on the arm and ease him back into focusing on his job.

Juliet was watching him, as if drawing out his memories merely by searching his eyes.

"It was a turning point," he added. "Toward better days. Toward a better me."

Slowly she smiled. "You're a pretty good you."

"Thank you." He drew her back in for another kiss, a little more intense this time, and she responded, sighing against his lips and half-melting to him. His grip on the mug began to weaken, so he guided them closer to the table and set it down before fully wrapping around her.

"So," she asked breathlessly, "you think about Victoria every Tuesday the 17th?"

He detected the undertone. "Not Victoria specifically. More like about me. How I was then. How I am now. And it always leads to thinking about you."

She traced a line along his jaw with one soft fingertip. "I like it when you think about me. Especially if I come out ahead of her in comparison."

Carlton raised one eyebrow. " _If_?"

Juliet smirked. "Okay. _Since_ I come out ahead of her."

"Better."

"But I don't like you leaving me alone in bed to think about _anything_ associated with her." She tightened her grip around his waist. "I'm a tad possessive."

"Don't worry. I only got up to pee, and then I figured I'd make coffee, and _then_ I spotted the calendar."

"Okay. Well, I don't mind ranking behind the need to pee, and coffee _is_ sacred."

"It's all about priorities. You smell nice." She did, all peaches-n-cream fragrance, and she was so warm and pliant in his arms.

"You smell nice too. How would you _prioritize_ making love to me before work versus drinking the rest of your coffee?"

"What is this _coffee_ of which you speak?" He covered her laughing mouth with his own, and one of those weird trippy things happened again where somehow they ended up naked in bed without him having any specific recollection of how they got there.

Juliet was so loving and delectable; she could make time disappear completely. She could make him honestly not care whether they'd be late to work.

She made him forget all the years it took to become the man who believed he was just about _nearly_ worthy of her (because no man was truly worthy of her).

With a simple sigh and kiss, she reduced him to his most basic components: a man lucky enough to be loved by Juliet O'Hara.

He silently thanked Victoria, and Lucinda, and Marlowe, and even Karen Vick and Shawn Spencer, for helping to shape him over time.

He thanked them, and then he made love to his new wife, and nothing much else mattered beyond that.

And on the next Tuesday the 17th, what would cross his mind when he read the date on the calendar was not his past self with Victoria, his past self _period_ , but this lovely quiet morning with Juliet, after the brief sparkling rain at dawn.

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End file.
